


Throaty

by namuneulbo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Breathplay, Choking, Dry Humping, First Kiss, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Attraction, erotic asphyxiation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 11:13:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11035035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/namuneulbo/pseuds/namuneulbo
Summary: Stiles has developed a new and slightly worrying (for those around him) habit.





	Throaty

**Author's Note:**

> First time attempting a Teen Wolf fic, so I don't think I have quite gotten the tone of the characters down yet, but I have admired this pairing for a long time and was inspired to write these scenes. I hope you enjoy it.

The first time Derek had thrust Stiles into a wall, he felt it. He felt the large, rough hand press down on his throat just enough to keep him immobile. The threat of violence only just overtook the sudden thrill that shot down his spine.

 

As he and Scott continued to work with Derek, whether the older man liked it or not, Stiles found himself pushing Derek’s buttons, searching for that special one which triggered a rough push into a hard vertical surface. Stiles acknowledged his growing attraction for the tragic, broken werewolf who was holding onto his self-made pack by a fraying thread, but continued to bury this other inkling deep within.

 

It was only after Derek had, in a more lighthearted moment, pinned him with one hand by the throat like an over-sized magnet to the refrigerator door in the pack’s loft kitchen and prised the last Dr. Pepper from Stiles’ hand, that Stiles decided to face the lust that coiled in his belly.

 

Stiles flipped the light switch in his room, tossed his car keys onto the desk and shimmied out of his jeans. He pulled the Beacon Hills lacrosse t-shirt over his head and walked across the hall to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. He inspected his reflection in the mirror, toothpaste escaping the corners of his mouth, purplish exhaustion blooming under his eyes, and sighed around his toothbrush.

He idly scratched a spot near his collarbone with his free hand and let it slowly drift up to his throat. He squeezed and immediately his hand became Derek’s, he recalled the light pressure on his trachea, perfectly measured and playful. His eyes met those of his reflection and choked on his mouthful of toothpaste. He quickly spat into the sink and cupped his hands, bringing water to his lips to gargle and rinse. He wiped his hands and face on the towel, trying to erase the image of Derek’s teasing smirk from his eyes.

 

He switched off the light and fell onto his bed. Closing his eyes, the image of Derek, his stupidly handsome face, his perfect body, his adorable ears floated up from the back of his mind. He swallowed thickly and felt a twitch in his cock. He licked his lips, reached down to press a palm firmly on his hardening erection and imagined it was the pressure of Derek’s body grinding onto him.

His cock was growing heavy in his hand as he pulled it out of its cotton confines and began to languidly stroke it. In his mind, a shirtless Derek curled his lips to make a low growl and ground his hips down onto Stiles. He brought a hand to his lips and spat onto it to slicken his dick as he began to pick up the pace. He could perfectly picture every plane of Derek’s face, every contour of his ridiculously cut chest, but as high quality of masturbation material as this was, what Stiles craved, what he needed, was the pressure of Derek against him, pushing down on him. Stiles could feel his arousal building, but the peak was just out of reach.

He let instinct take over and slid his left hand up his torso to rest on his neck. His long fingers wrapped around it and began to squeeze. He imagined his fingers thicker, his palm impossibly warm and firm. As he felt his blood rush to feed his brain, he felt his climax finally within reach. Stiles choked out a moan as his fingers tightened their grip and his cum spurted, warm onto his belly. He rode out his orgasm with a tight grip on his neck and his cock, he only released his grip when the rush of oxytocin flooded him and he fell into a post-self-coital daze.

A few minutes later, the imaginary Derek faded away as he fluttered open his eyes and grabbed a handful of tissues from the nightstand to clean himself up. Stiles tossed the tissues into the trash can just underneath. He pulled his boxers back up and wiggled his way under the covers, turned onto his side and soon drifted off to sleep.

 

* * *

  

Contrary to popular belief, Derek Hale was not nocturnal. Apart from his duties of keeping his pack of teenage werewolves in line and Beacon Hills free from other supernatural mayhem, he had to fulfill some of the basic tasks of human life such as buying groceries, filling up the gas tank of his Camaro, and returning dogeared paperbacks to the public library. He was in the local supermarket when he overheard Stiles and his father bickering over the amount of lettuce the former was putting into the basket a few aisles over.

 

“Just because it is green doesn’t mean it is only for St. Patrick’s day dad,” Stiles’ voice made Derek sure that the comment was accompanied by a heavy eyeroll.

 

“I know that son, but really, don’t you think six heads is a bit much?” The Sheriff replied to his son with fond exasperation.

 

“Did you forget that this Thursday Casa Stilinski is playing host to supernatural being bingo night? I am in charge of the salad because everyone else will inevitably forget,” Derek grins at the air quotes he knows Stiles put around ‘forget’, “and superpowers or no superpowers, eating a diet of only pizza and fuzzy forest critters cannot be good for you.”

 

Derek continued his own shopping, keeping an ear tuned to the Stilinskis playful banter to drown out the irritatingly repetitive tasteful music that the store played over the tannoy. There was no reason to make himself known to them, letting father and son have their space.

He was picking up cans of Chef Boyardee to see which of the many types Isaac had requested he bring home, when a sharp sound from Sheriff Stilinski made him pause and tilt his head towards the direction of the two men.

 

“Stiles!” The Sheriff hissed, “I thought you said everything was at peace right now.”

 

This caused Derek to freeze, what on earth was going on.

 

“What are you talking about, dad?” Stiles replied clearly bewildered.

 

“I thought we were through with this, I thought you were going to be honest with me from now on.” The Sheriff’s frustration leaked into his vocal chords, “You promised me.”

 

“Dad, I’m not lying, I swear.” Stiles said calmly, but Derek could hear his heartbeat picking up in panic.

 

“Then what are those bruises on your neck!”

 

There was a crunch and, startled, Derek looked down to see thick red sauce dripping down his hand and onto the floor. He dropped the crushed can of pasta, but before he could rush over and check on Stiles, a stock boy called out, “Hey! What the hell?”

 

Flustered, Derek apologised gruffly and tried to press some cash into the stock boy’s hand to pay for the can, but the stock boy gestured to Derek’s half full grocery cart and the werewolf inwardly sighed. Now that he had become a semi-respectable citizen of Beacon Hills, he couldn’t go flashing his fangs to get out of every minor inconvenience. He half listened as Stiles and the Sheriff made their way out of the store without further incident, but because of the altercation with the stock boy, he hadn’t heard Stiles’ explanation for the bruises and his mind was already racing.

By no means was Stiles the weakest member of the pack, but Derek knew that any new threat in town would most likely try and make themselves known through the pack member easiest to access, and with all but Scott living with Derek at the apartment, that leaves Stiles as the most open target.

Derek could feel his wolf’s hackles rising at the thought of someone laying their hands on something that was his. Bite or no bite, Stiles was pack and if someone or something had hurt him, they would feel every bit of pain back a hundredfold.

But, seeing as Stiles hadn’t contacted Derek about any sort of encounter, nor had it been more than a few days since they had last met, he reigned in his urge to immediately follow the Stilinskis home and get some answers and instead headed back to the loft to drop off his shopping.

 

A few hours later, Derek couldn’t hold back anymore and drove over to Stiles’ house. He nimbly jumped up onto the eaves and slid open Stiles’ bedroom window, climbing inside.

Stiles didn’t turn away from his computer screen, instead casually waving to Derek over his shoulder in a gesture saying ‘sit down, take a number.’

Derek continued to stand just inside the window, debating how he should broach the subject of the conversation he overheard. He moved to stand behind Stiles, and as the boy leaned further into the computer screen Derek caught sight of light purple smudges on the side of his neck and his eyes flashed red. He grabbed Stiles by the shoulder and swiveled him around to face him.

 

“Who touched you.” Derek growled and Stiles gaped at him.

 

Stiles couldn’t believe his luck, first his father, now Derek. He laughed with embarrassment and attempted to shrug his way out of Derek’s grasp, “It’s not what you think. Don’t worry about it.”  

 

Unconvinced, Derek tried to calm himself and repeated his question, this time keeping an ear trained on Stiles’ heartbeat for any hint of a lie, “Who touched you, Stiles.”

 

Stiles sighed, “No-one touched me. Not a finger has been laid astray on Stiles, no sirree.” His hand went up to rub the bruises and Derek’s eyes followed.

 

Derek’s frown turned from one of anger to one of confusion. He was sure that Stiles’ heartbeat had remained steady and he was not telling any lies, and yet the boy’s neck was clearly bruised. And the bruises were finger shaped.

 

With a groan of embarrassment and frustration, Stiles wiped a hand down his face and mumbled, “it was me.”

 

Derek’s puzzlement deepened and he still heard no blips.

 

Seeing that Derek was not going to connect the dots on his own, Stiles said, “I made the bruises, Derek. I choked myself.”

 

“You choked yourself?” Derek repeated, incredulous, “You injured yourself out of your own volition?”

 

“It’s just a few bruises, Derek,” Stiles frowned, “What does it matter?”

 

“It matters because it’s you,” Derek sighed and ran a hair through his hair with exasperation, “I just… I just can’t stand it. Seeing you hurt.”

 

Stiles stood up and looked Derek in the eye, “Derek, I can promise you that I wasn’t in pain.”

“This,” He said gesturing to the bruises and biting the conversational bullet, “If you really must know, happened when I was jacking off.”   

 

Derek could feel his jaw drop comically. His eyes darted to the bruises on Stiles’ neck again and the image of the boy panting, on hand with a tight grip on his throat and the other shoved down his jeans, came to mind unbidden. He felt his mouth grow dry and he licked his lips, eyes moving back to meet Stiles’.

Stiles could feel something in the air had changed; there was a sharpness between them, as if dancing on the edge of the precipice of something big. He reached forward and put a hand on Derek’s solid tricep, and when Derek didn’t back away, he slid his hand down the length of Derek’s arm as he stepped into the older man’s personal space. Stiles grabbed Derek’s wrist and brought Derek’s hand to rest on his collarbone, fingers loosely ringed around his neck.

Derek could feel Stiles’ quickening pulse where his fingers ghosted over mole-flecked flesh. Stiles’ adam’s apple bobbed against Derek’s palm as he swallowed and tipped his head up to expose more of his long neck to the werewolf standing in his bedroom. Derek could smell Stiles’ desire waft up and mix with his own, and he parted his lips slowly and breathed, “Stiles, can I?”

Stiles nodded and in a flash, Derek had him thrust up against the bedroom door, pinned by the neck. Derek’s lips pressed hot and dry against Stiles’ own. Both men parted their lips and the tips of their tongues flicked out gingerly to meet. Initial introduction over, their mouths opened wider so that their tongues could fully writhe against each other and explore the soft wetness of the other’s mouth. Both men were half hard when Derek broke the kiss to turn Stiles’ head to the side, exposing where the joint of the boy’s jaw met his long, pale neck. With an encouraging squeeze on the arm from Stiles, Derek tightened his grip on the boy’s neck and began to sloppily kiss the reddening skin where his pulse thickened and throbbed against Derek’s thumb. Stiles’ hips pushed forward to meet Derek’s jean clad hardness with urgency. Derek pressed back, drawing his body hot and flush against Stiles’ own. Their lips crashed together again and what had once been a soft exploration became an all out ransacking of each other’s mouths, hands following suit and fitfully attempting to touch as much of the other man as possible.

Derek wedged a thigh between Stiles’ legs and rolled his hips causing a delicious friction between their restrained cocks. Stiles urged him on with mewls and moans, and Derek could feel what remained of his control slipping out of his mental grasp. In perfect harmony, their pace quickened and their rolling hips grew frantic.

 

“Derek,” Stiles gasped hoarsely, “Do it again. I’m close, I’m so close.” He caught Derek’s hand on his hip, intertwined their fingers and gave a squeeze. Derek caught the message and brought the hand back up to Stiles’ neck, wrapping his fingers around the human’s vulnerable column. Stiles’ hips began to jerk and Derek fractionally tightened his grip. Stiles choked and could see sparks of yellow before his eyes and a darkness closing in from his peripheries. His orgasm slammed into him making the yellow sparks burst white. Derek loosened his hold on Stiles and burying his nose into the crook of the boy’s neck, he too felt his hips jerk erratically as his own climax overtook him.

 

It took all his remaining presence of mind to hold up a now ecstasy limp Stiles against the door. They both panted and Derek licked and nuzzled the deep red splotches on Stiles’ neck that would surely turn to deeper and darker bruises in the morning.

Regaining enough strength to bring a hand up to feel the wet patches on both his and Derek’s jeans, Stiles grinned. That had been a thousand times better than he had imagined on his own, yet completely unimaginable because of Derek’s own unexpected enthusiasm in fulfilling Stiles’ fantasy. He was about to say as much to Derek, when the man who had been languidly rubbing his hands down the sides of Stiles’ arms froze and slowly backed up. Stiles looked at him, puzzled, but then heard his dad call up to him from downstairs, “Stiles! Got here five minutes ago, hurry up and come to dinner!”

Clearly they had been too absorbed in each other and missed his dad calling up the first time. Stiles quickly composed himself as best as possible and called back, “Be down in a minute, dad. Just need to save at the dungeon door!” He watched as Derek climbed onto the window sill and looked back at him, silently making sure Stiles was okay with him leaving. Stiles nodded his silent reply and Derek slipped silently out the window and into the night. Once he was out of sight, Stiles went to change his pants and head down to dinner with his father, the ghost of Derek’s hand still warm on his skin. Now he just had the embarrassing task of telling his father he had another strangle-wank after they had awkwardly broached the subject in the car ride home from the grocery store earlier that afternoon. Great.


End file.
